


Dishwasher

by orphan_account



Category: No Fandom
Genre: That's literally it it's just a dishwasher being extistenial, have fun y'all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-08 07:15:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21231881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It's nighttime. Strange things happen at night.





	Dishwasher

I have one job, and I’d like to say I do my one job quite well.

The house is quiet- the people have gone about their days and have retired for the night. The dishes inside clink and clank like windchimes. I smell a bit like soap. Then again, I always smell a bit like soap. That’s part of my job, I think- smelling like soap. I do that pretty okay too.

The quiet hum of the kitchen is the song I am used to, although it can sound lonely in the cold dark. Sometimes, when the people go about their days, I hear other kinds of music. They are beautiful. Sometimes the ones with pitches like the clothing washer mix together sweetly, and then it sounds less like the clothing washer and more like birds. I do not hear birds often, but they drip like honey from my wet ceiling. 

I wish listening to music was my job.

It is not my job, although it is a job I do well. 

It is lonely here, next to the sink. The refrigerator is cold and ever-changing. He does not want to listen to the music. He is full of many things, in the way that I am full of many things, but he is more important than I. They panic when the dark comes when it is not supposed to- the rains howl and the winds whip and the lightning cracks and the darkness comes a-swallowing and I stop in my job. 

I do not see the wind and the rain and the lightning, but I know it is there. I will never see the wind and the rain and the lightning. I chug along, the swirl of water masking the meager, melancholy hum of the kitchen.

Sometimes there are sounds other than music. I like those too, although the people do not. There is a peal, something alive in the way I am not. The clamor of a thousand windy high, small voices bouncing over each other. The boom of one like thunder, deep and loud. The three like songbirds, winding, winding, melodies dipping and swirling in soft, careful spirals. They are not always songs- words that wash like the weight of the water inside. There is always water inside.

But the sound is not my job, either.

My job is to be full, and then empty. I jostle and leap in delight, holding delicacy within my grasp and rinsing and writhing until they sparkle. I am a tool of theirs. I am a machine. I am not the best-built machine. There was one before me, I feel. The wood underneath is heavy and worn from the weight of another. Perhaps more than one another.

I know the weight of the wood: I know the song. I know the sound and I know the buzz and I know a quiet hymn that rings through the inky blackened hall of the kitchen in the nighttime.

I know my job, and I do it well, but that is not all I  _ want _ to know.

I want to know the lightning. I want to know the wind, I want to know the rain, I want to know the sky and the stars. I was shiny once, and never again shiny shall I be. When I have served my job and done it well I want to know the ocean, wine-dark and cold and beautiful. Full of so many beautiful things. I want to be beautiful someday.

But that is not my job.

The house is quiet- the people have gone about their days and have retired for the night. The dishes inside clink and clank like windchimes. I smell a bit like soap. Then again, I always smell a bit like soap. That’s part of my job, I think- smelling like soap. 

I have one job, and I’d like to say I do my one job quite well.


End file.
